I've always been a go-getter. Relaxing has never come naturally. I've carried this quiet pressure to always be doing something, the house isn't clean enough, it isn't neat and put together, as if that somehow marks my worth. Maybe it was my way of controlling my environment. Maybe it was tied to self-worth. I'm still not entirely sure.
In the past, a basket of laundry could trigger a storm of tension. I would rush to put it away with the anxious energy of an over-caffeinated squirrel, shoulders tight, breath shallow, heart in a hurry. My body carried the mess as much as my mind did.
I don't fully understand why cleanliness stirs such anxiety in me. I know I feel lighter in a tidy space, but somehow the clutter accumulates faster than I can manage. Since my son arrived, our home has expanded into a living ecosystem of toys, books, and little life traces. Even with conscious boundaries, the piles grow.
The last year I've spent decluttering. I've made progress, real, visible change. And yet, there is always more. There probably always will be.
In the last few months, though, something has shifted. With practices that nourish the body and calm the nervous system, pelvic floor and TMJ release, fascia rehydration, breathwork, alignment, working with my naturopath, I notice myself letting go in more ways than one.
The anxiety I once felt about cleaning has softened. I still see the mess, but I can let it sit for a few days without judgment. I've gone a month without cleaning the shower, the longest stretch I can remember. Part of me wonders how long I can simply allow things to be. How long before that old voice returns, whispering that I'm careless? Perhaps I can leave it, and simply watch life unfold around it. No catastrophe occurs. No one dies. Life continues. We continue.
(For clarity, the toilets still get a weekly-ish cleanse.)
Our home isn't a showpiece, but it is alive. Letting go of excess furniture and possessions has made it easier to meet the remaining mess with curiosity instead of tension. I walk past the piles and notice them without judgment, simply acknowledging the life they represent.
The perfectionist in me hasn't disappeared. But I'm learning to let her rest.